


How Clint Barton Became Part of the Story

by PrincessSkylar



Series: I Thought I Heard You Say "I Love You" [2]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Because it works, Damn it Matt I'm an Avenger not a doctor, Deaf Clint Barton, Foggy hates Clint, Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, See No Evil Hear No Evil, dumpster bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 07:08:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4170660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrincessSkylar/pseuds/PrincessSkylar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how I, Clint Barton, superhero, Avenger, became a freakin’ love counselor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Clint Barton Became Part of the Story

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is technically part of the I Thought I Heard You Say “I Love You” series, but it does not really focus on Matt and Foggy. It's like... Part 1 1/2. And "inbetweenquel," if you get the reference. It explains something I plan to do in part two. Basically, it was an excuse for me to write more Hawkguy-- ‘cause is there such thing as too much Clint Barton? Probably not. (Probably.)  
> It also fills in some lost time between Dying and Dreaming.
> 
> SPECIAL THANKS 2 MY BABES AidaMae AND Can_you_hate_the_Xmen23 FOR EDITING

Being an Avenger-- no, being a superhero-- no, scratch that too… Being a HERO, meant a lot more than what you see on television. Saving lives isn’t just about kicking ass and stopping building from collapsing. There are a lot of people who give others praise because they stopped an alien invasion, or took down Hydra, or saved the world… And yeah, we’re pretty freakin’ important.

But all of that would be meaningless, if we didn’t have our everyday heroes, like police, and firemen, and doctors. Seriously, until you’ve fought an army of giant robots with nothing but a bow and quiver, you can’t understand the value of doctors. They’re really important, okay?

Sure, Thor and Captain America don’t need doctors. But Tony Stark does. And Clint Barton sure as hell does. Regularly. You don’t understand how hard it is to be a human superhero.

Which is all just to bring us to the beginning of this story.

The story of how I, Clint Barton, superhero, an Avenger, became a freakin’ love counselor.

It all started when I was left behind on a mission. Yeah, that happened. I'd been injured a week earlier, I won’t say how, or where on my body the injury occurred, but I was out of commision.

So, while all the other Avengers were out fighting the Serpent Society-- no, the Wrecking-- or was it… You know what? I don’t remember. They all kind of blur together after a while. Anyway, they were out doing that, and I was stuck at the Tower, waiting for an update (they wouldn’t let me go home until my injury had healed, can you believe that? I have a dog to take care of!)

So I was watching TV, lying on the couch on my side since my injury actually stopped me from sitting up or lying on my back, when the rest of the Avengers crashed in, looking pretty beat up.

Iron Man looked the worst, his suit was dark and damaged in several places, and he was actually being carried by Thor (much against his will, I soon learned.) Even as we were lying Tony down and prying off his armor, Cap was calling SHIELD.

I won’t go into detail about the next half-hour before SHIELD got there, but I will say that Tony Stark was not happy about needing help.

SHIELD showed up, hauled Tony away, he ended up being fine, even though his suit was pretty much totalled.

I had an epiphany during this time. I guess. Epiphany’s kind of dramatic, isn’t it? I had a thought. It occurred to me that, hey, SHIELD isn’t always available for stuff like this, and hospital bills can be pretty expensive. Wouldn’t it be more safe, and convenient, if there was a medic on the team?

Sure, Thor went to medical school for a short time (don’t ask,) so he knows some stuff, but he’s more the muscle of the team. So if someone got injured during a fight, before it ended, we’d need Thor to be on the defense. So, who doesn’t actually contribute that much to a fight? You guessed it.

Me.

The next logical plan of action was to take first aid classes in my spare time… Which was actually pretty difficult, between Avenging, running a building, fighting off the Tracksuit Mafia, taking care of my dog… I had to sacrifice my social life. Which was pretty much only about one person. Well, two, but we’ll get to him.

After the first course finished, I kept taking them. One thing led to another, and… Now I’m kind of a doctor? I mean, not legally. I never actually attended medical school or anything, but apparently, my knowledge of neuropsychology was enough for Matt.

“I’m not an actual doctor,” I tried to explain to him, when confronted with a favor.

“I know, Clint, I-- I just need someone I can trust,” he pleaded.

The two of us were sitting on a roof, somewhere in Hell’s Kitchen. We were both in our superhero costumes, after having fought a common enemy (some inconsequential nobody, who happens to be a pain in the ass).

I sighed. “I’ve only taken one course in psychology-- you really should hire a professional.”

Then Matt pulled his killer move. Now, I don’t know if this guy does this on purpose, but it’s pretty damn effective. He sighed a quiet, sad sigh and pulled off his Daredevil cowl in frustration. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair and seemed to think for a moment before turning to me with this face.

Okay, if you don’t know Matt, if you haven’t seen his face, let me explain something to you. This guy’s face… He looks like a damn puppy. Despite what Kate might say, I’m pretty good at resisting puppy faces, but Matthew Murdock does it better than anyone else. Maybe it’s the fact that his pathetic blind eyes don’t focus on you. Maybe it was the blood seeping out of his nose, or maybe it was the pure disappointment in his features.

But before he could even continue to plead, I blurted out, “Fine! I’ll do it.”

His dumb face lit up like it was Christmas.

I hate that guy.

Oh, right, so, that favor. So Matt has this friend, Foggy, who I guess got his head injured. He had just come out of a coma when Matt contacted me.

My job, this favor, was to disguise as a neuropsychologist to take care of Foggy when he was at home.

Let me be clear about something: Matt knows how busy I am. Sure, our friendship is usually spent kicking bad guy butt together, or pulling each other out of dumpsters, but there is the rare occasion where we just go out for coffee or lunch, and we talk, and he knows I don’t have time for this.

But he gave me that stupid face, so I asked Fury for some time off. I told the Avengers I would be busy. I handed Lucky to Kate and pulled favors to make sure my apartment building didn’t go to shit while I was gone.

Don’t get me wrong, Matt had to sacrifice a lot for this, too. The guy’s a freaking lawyer, he doesn’t even have a superhero team, and his identity is actually secret. Also, he’s poor as dirt, which means he can’t take time off of work. He would literally die, probably.

And then there’s Foggy…

Let’s just say, after all he’s been through, it was understandable when he slammed the door in my face before Matt could even finish saying “Dr. Barton.”

“Foggy!” Matt called through the door. “Come on, we talked about this!”

“I don’t need a live-in!” Foggy shouted back, “I’m fine! Go away!”

Matt huffed, and dug a key out of his pocket. He opened the door, and we were greeted by the sight of-- er, I was greeted by the sight of Foggy turning towards the door in irritation and confusion.

“How’d you get in?”

“You gave me a key,” Matt reminded him, “After I broke in through the window that one time. Remember?”

Foggy’s frown only deepened. “You broke through my window?”

Matt bit his lip, clearly frustrated. “Remember? You thought I was a robber and tried to hit me with a baseball bat?”

Foggy blinked in confusion for a moment, before also growing frustrated and running his hands through his long hair. “Why can’t I remember?!” he demanded.

Matt walked into the apartment and straight up to the shorter man. “Hey,” he placated patiently, placing a tentative hand on Foggy’s shoulder. “Breath, Foggy, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not!” Foggy bit back, his voice wavering like he was about to cry. “I hate this, Matt! I hate being broken, I--” His voice cracked and he had to stop himself.

“You’re not-- I know, Foggy,” Matt assured him quietly. He turned his head to address me and said, “Could we have a moment?”

I wasn’t eager to hear the rest of their conversation, so I nodded and backed out of the room respectfully, closing the door as I left.

I leaned against the wall in the hallway and lowered the volume on my hearing aid out of respect for their privacy.

It wasn’t long before the door opened again and Matt came out. He was already speaking before I could switch my volume back up. All I heard say was, “-t that, I wish I could say I wasn’t expecting him to react that way…”

I shrugged. “It’s expected, given his situation, for him to be experiencing agitation.” I followed the statement with a distasteful face at how much I sounded like a doctor.

“Still, I… I know this is a lot to ask of you--”

“Hey, I already said I’d do it,” I interrupted, afraid I’d be too eager to grab a chance out of this if it was offered. “I…” I sighed. “I get it now.” Matt frowned. “Why you asked me,” I elaborated. “You obviously care about him a lot… I’ll take good care of him, okay?”

Matt relaxed slightly in relief and gave a small smile. “Thank you.”

I smiled back and nodded, sending a silent prayer to whoever was listening that I could follow through on that promise.

With a bracing breath, I stepped back through the doorway with as friendly a smile I could manage and approached Foggy, who was seated in a chair, glaring at the table as though it was the cause of his problems.

“Hey,” I said gently. He turned his death glare on me, and I was able to see that he had been crying. “Clint Barton,” I greeted, extending a hand to him. One thing I knew better than anything else, a disabled person is still a person, and shouldn’t be spoken to in a condescending way.

Foggy begrudgingly took my hand. “Foggy Nelson,” he replied, giving me a surprisingly firm handshake.

…

The following weeks, Foggy made it abundantly clear that he did not want me there… When he could remember who I was.

“Who are you and why are you in my apartment?!” he asked one morning, not long after I had moved in.

“My name is Clint Barton, I’m your nurse…”

“What are you talking about?”

“Foggy, do you know where you are?” I asked carefully.

Foggy frowned. “I’m in my apartment,” he replied.

“Right, four months ago you received a major head injury, which put you in a coma for four months. You woke up eleven days ago, and you’ve been in recovery ever since. I’m your neuropsychologist, Dr. Clint Barton.”

Foggy’s frown deepened for a moment, before fading slowly. “Oh,” he said softly, “Right…”

The next morning, when Foggy woke up, I asked him, “Do you know where you are?”

To which he replied, “In my apartment, in Hell’s Kitchen.” He added, “Four months ago, I sustained a brain injury that put me in a coma for four months. I woke up twelve days ago, and I’ve been in recovery ever since. You’re my stupid live-in nurse, Barton.

After that, every time he became disoriented, I’d have him recite the same spiel: “My name is Foggy Nelson, I’m in my apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, I’m a lawyer for local law firm Nelson and Murdock, I recently suffered brain trauma that put me in a coma for four months. I woke up two weeks ago and have been in recovery ever since. You’re my nurse, Clint Barton.”

The words created a sort of trigger in his brain which would help unlock his lost memories whenever he forgot. Not that memory was the only problem brought on by the trauma, but it seemed to be the most frustrating to him.

Matt spends just about all of his free time at Foggy’s apartment. He often stays the night, though he rarely sleeps. He brings Foggy’s groceries, and sometimes he brings puzzles or games to help with Foggy’s memories. Once or twice he’s taken him out for lunch.

It’s times like these when I’m able to report back to the team. I can’t actually say what I’m doing, as it would put myself and the two of them in danger, and reveal Matt’s secret identity, but I let them know I’m not dead, and I’m not in danger. I say I’ll be back as soon as I can.

The reality of that is, it could be up to two years before Foggy’s recovered enough to be living by himself.

I don’t tell anyone that.

I visit my building whenever I can. Make sure Lucky hasn’t forgotten me, let my residents knows I’m still there, and let the mafia know they can’t screw with me

I’m hoping that, as Foggy progresses, I’ll get more time to spend on my other life. You know, the real one. But until then, well… This one’s not so bad.

****  
  



End file.
